


Just a Scribble on your Wrist

by statesofuncertainty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, First Time, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Victor Trevor Being An Asshole, Virgin Sherlock, im a sucker for soulmate fics, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:51:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statesofuncertainty/pseuds/statesofuncertainty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock entered the flat first, Adrenaline still flooding his system from the running he threw his coat on to the rack before suddenly finding himself pressed up against the closed door with John's lips on his own.</p><p>This was new. Very new.</p><p>An AU where everyone has their soulmates name written on their wrist. Unfortunately it looks like an unreadable scribble and only your soulmate can read their own name on your wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soulscribbles

**Author's Note:**

> loveanddeathandartandtaxes did me the huge favour of editing this story for me; I do hope that make your reading go much more smoothly then it would otherwise :)

“And your name is...” asked Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“Why does it matter?” sighed the recently-awoken man lying on the cot in the cell.

“It matters because you took cocaine - nearly enough to overdose, and you were found with no ID and a phone that is under an account that we can't seem to trace back to the credit card for ID.”

The DI huffed. Why did he always get the stubborn ones? He had been on his way back from a crime scene in west London when he had glanced down an alleyway during a red light only to see a leg sticking out from the shadows of an old house. Naturally he had parked the car and gone to go make sure that it wasn't a dead body (even if that would spice up his boring day.) As luck would have it, it was only a barely conscious adult male. The DI would have called for an ambulance, but the man regained awareness for a minute or two before muttering “Fuck off”, glaring at the police officer before returning to his drug induced stupor. Instead Lestrade had called for Sally, and the both of them had managed to shove the loose-limbed, thin body into the back of the police car.

 

Now the dark-haired man slowly brought himself to a sitting position and drawled “There was a reason why I had no identification.”

“To confound the police officers who have had a long shift and just want to go home?” Lestrade sighed.

The man smirked “Yes, because annoying police officers is the only enjoyment I get out of life. No, I was simply taking precautions while talking to my dealer”

“Talking?” asked Lestrade.

“Yes. The thing your mouth does while you inform a moron that his merchandise is overpriced by 19% in comparison with other dealers,” was the sarcastic retort.

“Whatever. You are being charged with-”

“Oh for God's sake. I want to leave. Let me Out.” The man interrupted.

“Are you insane?! You are here on the charge of public intoxication and possession of illegal drugs; as well as owning a possibly forged account for your phone. Name?”

“Fine. The name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well Sherlock Holmes, you--”

“I get a phone call. Call the contact that is saved under 'The Queen' on my mobile. You talk; I certainly do not want to speak with him.” Sherlock interrupted.

“Are you not interested in hearing about the restrictions that-”

“Call the number.”

“Christ.” Lestrade huffed and walked off. 'The Queen' turned out to be a male voice who answered with “Let him leave. You no longer have any digital or written record of his arrest and therefore it would be best to let him leave before your superior asks you why there is an undocumented man in a cell. You have ten minutes.”

Lestrade stared at the phone as the other man ended the call before he had said a word. He turned to the nearest computer.

The records had indeed disappeared, and upon returning to the cells some minutes later he found a young officer letting Sherlock Holmes out; the officer responded to his outrage with a simple “I received orders,” and took the phone out of Lestrade’s hand and passed it to its owner who smirked and waltzed out.

 

* * *

 

 “John!” Hearing his name, John Watson turned to see Mike running towards him across the small grassy area between the science buildings.

“Hey, could you tell me what I missed in yesterday’s Bio?” panted Mike.

“Yeah, sure.” John said “Frayer talked about chapter 17 in the textbook, he focused on the neural synapses. Don't you have the course outline? The dates and coursework are written there.”

Mike looked down in embarrassment. “I might have used it to pick up Gladstone's poop.”

“For fuck's sake Mike!” John laughed “This is university, you have to stay on top of things.”

“Well if I fail I can blame my dog.”

“No you can't. What were you doing instead anyways?” John asked

“I was sick.” Mike said and flushed red.

“That is a lie.” John said and rolled his eyes. “Please tell me its because you and Anita finally got together.”

Mike blushed. “Pretty much, yea...She'd wanted to ever since reading her name on my wrist....lost track of time and she said an 11am class is way too early to get out of bed for.”

John laughed and threw an arm around Mike. “That is such a good reason for skipping that you can copy my homework.”

Mike sighed in relief, saying “Thank fuck, John! I owe you one.”

 

* * *

 

Greg Lestrade could never remember exactly what happened a few weeks later, but one moment he was making sure that the roadblocks were being set up, and the next there was a vaguely familiar lanky man telling him that the murderer was a short, right handed ex-baseball player with a god complex and a diabetic wife. No sane man would have given a second thought to the rant of a seemingly random homeless youth who wore a torn grey hoodie which hid his wrists and jeans so tight that, even in the dim evening light, had Sergeant Johnson doing a double take. However, exhaustion and frustration had forced Lestrade into a corner where he found himself asking “What on earth makes you think that?” to the young man. The man had smiled and explained his 'deductions' so quickly that Sergeant Johnson had barely had time to finish his obvious leering, before the man had spun on his heel and called out a few suggestions on the probable location of the murderer.

 

Unfortunately he had soon afterwards received a call demanding he appear at the 'Diogenes Club' to have a conversation that had gone like this.

“Gregory Robert Lestrade, born the seventh of March in nineteen sixtyeight. Father of two children and husband of an unfaithful wife.”

“That is none of your business.” Lestrade had stated firmly.

“This is the second time you have had contact with Sherlock Holmes. Why?” The sharply dressed man asked in a tone that demanded an answer.

“Sherlock Holmes? Oh! The guy with the deductions and long sleeves, yea? Why do you care about a homeless drug addict?” Lestrade asked.

“My brother has had a difficult time as of late. He seems to think that a cocaine habit is an appropriate use of his time.”

“He's your brother?” Lestrade asked, completely taken by surprise. Other than Sherlock's accent and speech patterns, there was nothing about that badly dressed and unkempt appearance that could even begin to compare to the pristine elegance of this tall auburn-haired man with the chilling stare.

“Yes, he has been homeless on and off for almost three years now. He had an incident a few years back and he seems to be incapable of shaking it off. Well, he has always been a Drama Queen I suppose.”

“Does that have anything to do with his- well his lack of name?” Lestrade questioned, deciding that this Holmes would not be amused to learn that his brother has his number saved as 'The Queen'.

“Ah you noticed that.”

“Well yea, you know we have all the names on file. Soulscribbles are as unique as fingerprints so they are very useful for ID but his wrist was blank, not a single mark so we tried tracking his ID through his phone and couldn't.” Greg decided not to ask about the untraceable phone account and let the Holmes man continue.

“His lack of name is part of the reason. However I did not call you here to speak about the past. I am rather more interested in speaking about the future. My brother has always enjoyed playing 'detective' and I am interested in making you an offer.” The man said smoothly.

In the end, Greg supposed that it wasn't such a bad trade, wanted criminals in exchange for giving Sherlock Holmes access to Scotland Yard's files; Mycroft would ensure that none of the higher-ups would ever notice and Sherlock could use any resources to chase after the 'criminal of the week'. The only condition was that Sherlock had to stay off the drugs. Which was good of course, Sherlock would need his wits about him if he wanted to work with his team, especially because of the way Sergeant Johnson kept making sure he had a good view of Sherlock's backside. “Who cares if the fucker doesn't have a name,” Johnson had said offhandedly “I'll bet he can suck cock better than you can Sally.”

Sally Donovan filed a complaint which ended with Johnson's demotion and her own promotion.

  

* * *

 

John's inner wrist had a very intricate scribble on it, and as  with everyone's, it was illegible to his eyes. The elegant grey-black loops and swirls looked almost tattooed onto his skin but obviously had no texture. It was just a scribble under smooth skin that only his 'soulmate' would be able to read as their own name. John rubbed his thumb over it as a promise to not die out here in the sun and heat.

“GET DOWN!” Someone cried as a landmine exploded only a few yards away. John counted to three once the sound had faded away and looking up into the cloud of dirt, he could only make out a couple of forms through the dust.

“Afghanistan is a beautiful country,” John thought. “Pity it’s being blown to pieces.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was standing in his small kitchen staring up at the mauve stain that now decorated the previously white ceiling. Maybe he should have used a bigger test tube. Oh well, next time he would use a larger one. The door was knocked and Lestrade entered the room.

“Happy Birthday,” Lestrade said, ignoring the disaster zone that was the rest of the tiny flat.

“Hmm,” was all Sherlock could be bothered with replying.

“Do you have any plans for later today then?”

Sherlock turned to look at him, giving him a quick once-over before returning his gaze to the stain. “I am busy.”

“Yea, I know. I was thinking that later tonight we could go to a pub or something,” Lestrade tried.

Sherlock smiled, and looking at Lestrade from the corner of his eye said “You can tell Mycroft I have been clean for well over a year now, and that you no longer need to babysit me. Don't bother denying it Lestrade; I am not an idiot.”

Greg sighed. “Don't you like going out Sherlock? I mean, for leisure instead of for work?”

Sherlock stilled. “I don't need people, Detective Inspector, I need work. Leave.”

Greg frowned, but did as he was ordered and left Sherlock with his faded track marks to return to his work.

 

 


	2. The soul on your arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the first thing you noticed in a person, eyes might be a window to the soul but soulscribbles were part of the soul itself.

Mike Stamford was infuriating. The man clearly did not have anything better to do with his life other than bother other people. He was however occasionally useful; doctors tended to have a lot of information about various human illnesses and their symptoms memorized, and it saved a few gigabytes of absurdly expensive mobile data to just ask Mike about the likelihood of a migraine being initiated by a fractured index finger.

“Where were you last week?” Mike asked in his usual good-natured manner. “There was a body that Molly wanted you to look at but she says you never responded to her texts.”

Sherlock hung his coat up behind the lab door “There was a pressing matter with my landlord, which unfortunately took up quite a lot of my time.” Sherlock grimaced at the thought of the latest regrettable explosion which had not gone over well with the cranky old man with an internet porn addiction who insisted that his property was not to be used as a chemical laboratory.

“Looking for a new place?” asked Mike.

“Not anymore.”

Mike watched as the tall man shoved aside a pile of petri dishes and made room for a ziplock bag full of what may have been molars.

“Found a place then?”

“Yes, an old acquaintance of mine recently had a flat in her building vacated so she offered it to me.” Sherlock extracted one of the teeth and held it up to the light.

“What part of London?”

“Baker Street.”

“Baker Street? Must be expensive.”

“She gave me a special offer. It was the only two bedroom flat to be found at such a location and price, and I fully intend to turn the second bedroom into a lab.” Sherlock replied then emptied out the ziplock bag and began sorting the small mountain of teeth.

“Two bedrooms? You could try to find a flatmate. Because unless you have a fortune in the bank that location is going to drain you. It must be well over 600 pounds a week!”

Sherlock looked up with such a scathing look of 'What is wrong with you' that if Mike were unused to it, it would have been almost enough to kill him. However Sherlock had been giving him similar looks for years, and it was one of those things you built up an immunity against over time.

“Who in their right mind would want me for a flatmate?” asked Sherlock, almost daring him to say that 'someone might not mind about the total lack of name'. He could hide his wrist with sleeves and coats but a flatmate would eventually notice that his right wrist had no indecipherable scribble on it, and that would cause the theoretical flatmate to leave. The German 1930's and 40's hate propaganda was still believed by idiots, and everyone was an idiot. Mike had been extremely cautious around Sherlock the first time they met having noticed almost immediately that he lacked a name. However his medical curiosity and his easygoing nature had overcome his initial concern and he now tended to start 'small talk' and ask him to deduce a varietyof his students; which took Sherlock by surprise but in a way it was pleasant to have someone to notice if he didn't appear for over a week. Victor had been like that, but no, Mike wasn't Victor. Sherlock shook off the thought, silently cursing his inability to delete the memory of that bastard.

“You may have a point if you keep the things Molly gives you in your fridge.”

“Where else would I keep them?” Sherlock sniffed.

“Well you never know, there might be someone desperate enough to put up with it.” Mike said with a laugh.

“If I do find someone then the lab will have to be kept in the kitchen, and that may not be too sanitary.”

“I see the problem there,” Mike smiled and watched Sherlock who had suddenly become completely absorbed in a rather unremarkable molar.

“I will leave you to it then. I have a lecture in about half an hour. Shame though, its a nice day and I would prefer to go for a walk.”

At Sherlock's complete lack of response, Mike left the man to his business.

 

* * *

 

Looking at Mike, who had reappeared in the lab Sherlock understood why the ex-army doctor with the psychosomatic limp following him had been giving annoyed and confused glares at the heavier man. Anyone could detect the sense of 'this is going to be hilarious' that Mike was giving off in waves. Just his self-satisfied expression made that clear. He was about to start sulking over it when the army doctor answered his question.

“Here use mine” The man held out a mobile. He glanced at the army doctor's wrist; the exposed soulscribble was illegible to Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock hesitated before extending his hand and taking it. Hopefully the lack of peephole in his sleeves of the jacket wouldn't be noticed. It was, however, and Sherlock saw the man raise an eyebrow before he looked back up.

He had probably perfected his 'non judgemental' face as part of his work - no doctor should express surprise at a physical oddity, Sherlock reasoned. Mike brought him in for the flat share; he might be a doctor and a professor but he must be completely insane to think that anyone would be comfortable sharing a living space with him considering the taboo that hung over the very few who were born with blank wrists. Might as well scare this John Watson away immediately. It would save him approximately 8 minutes.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?”

 

* * *

 

Everyone wore their heart on their wrists, and proudly showed them off as much as possible. It was the first thing you noticed in a person; eyes might be a window to the soul but soulscribbles were part of the soul itself. Fashion reflected this - 3/4 sleeves were the norm in formal wear. Clothes with long sleeves were less popular and always had embroidered holes that exposed the soulscribble to everyone's eyes. Jewelry was always worn on the left hand as to not obscure the name on the right wrist. Soulscribbles were something to be proud of, even those with deceased soulmates showed the now white coloured scribble as a tribute to their partner. Sherlock had started having long-sleeved suits tailor-made with no peepholes in the sleeve when he turned 16 after a classmate in university had loudly commented on how obvious it was that Sherlock Holmes used pen ink to fake a soulscribble on his wrist. It didn't matter because he didn't care. He thought even the name 'soulscribbles' was absurd, coined and made popular by some regency novelist who must have melted her brain with smelling salts. It was ridiculous and he didn't care at all.

 

* * *

  

To Sherlock's infinite amazement John showed up to view the flat, and even Mrs. Hudson's insinuations didn't put him off. Clearly John was either so desperate he would go for any flatshare, or he was completely insane.

Of course he would clean up the flat a bit if John insisted, it would never be the military standard of 'organized' but intelligence is wasted on housework and that would indeed be a tragic waste. Mrs. Hudson could clean if she wanted to, seeing as she had no great intellect to lose.

Obviously John wanted to ask. Everyone wanted to ask, and most people did ask (in very rude ways) so why wouldn't John ask? It affected him more than it would  a random stranger on the street considering that he lived in the same flat and spent a considerable amount of time around him. This is why people got murdered in interesting ways, they never stop to ask the right questions because social niceties demand silence. Take that murder-suicide he had solved the previous week. Why hadn't the victim simply asked why his girlfriend took the wrong exit on the highway? She took the same route every single evening, so there was no reason she would have made that error, but no, the man hadn't questioned it and it had ended with her Swiss army knife in his throat.

“You can ask me.”

“What?” John looked up from his long-forgotten blog post.

“The thing you were just asking yourself. That you keep asking yourself.”

John flushed “Stop with the mind reading, it’s unnerving.”

Sherlock stared pointedly.

“Okay-well-um-I know it’s not any of my business-”

“Indeed it isn't,” Sherlock agreed.

“Well speaking as a doctor I was wondering why you don't have a soulscribble -er- name?”

Sherlock closed the book he had been pretending to read. “As you know, doctor, less than one in ten million people born have no 'soulscribble'. I just happen to be one of those rare examples.”

“But in all of those cases those people have been either extremely mentally deficient, or complete psychopaths.”

“What makes you think I don't belong in the second category?”

John huffed a laugh “I know you Sherlock, so I know you are not a murderous psychopath.”

“What makes you think I haven't killed anybody?”

John sighed “Killing in itself doesn't make you a heartless murderer. Accidents happen, sometimes for your own safety you have no choice, and in other times you sign up to go kill your country’s enemies on the front lines. And you of all people should know the difference between those types of deaths and those that a heartless serial murderer does. I have no idea if you have, but if you did I am sure you had an excellent reason.”

“I haven't killed anyone. Well not directly. Mr. Hudson would still be around if I hadn't assisted Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock mused

“Well he certainly isn't missed.” John smiled

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“So you are obviously not extremely mentally challenged,-” John laughed at Sherlock's raised eyebrows “And I am positive you aren't this generation's H.H Holmes. Is there a medical reason for it then? Because everyone has a name, even stillborn babies have them.”

“No one knows John. I simply do not have one. There is nothing else wrong with me, I just don't have one. Even Mycroft has one and he is by far the most heartless man in the country.”

“It must be inconvenient.”

“That is a major understatement.” Sherlock murmured, reaching for his violin, and John saw Sherlock's expression flicker for an instant before the detective had turned away.

 

* * *

 

"WHAT THE HELL?! KEEP HIM AWAY FROM ME!” screamed the middle-aged man who had been halfway through his explanation of the store's security systems to one of Lestrade's minions, twisting himself into hysteria.

“He is working with us sir. Could you please contin-”

“THE POLICE WORK WITH DEFICIENTS?!”

“Sir! Do not refer to a member of my team in such terms.” Lestrade glared at the man who had used such an outdated and crude term to refer to Sherlock. Had Sherlock already done his usual insulting deductions before being called a 'Deficient' Lestrade wouldn't have been as surprised, but Sherlock had barely turned the corner to come see the witness, and really they had no business calling the consulting detective by that dehumanizing term.

Sherlock showed hardly any sign of having heard the man's words, but Lestrade saw the sudden anxious glance that the detective shot at John, before returning to his study of the crime scene photos, his features portraying a calm indifference. John just stared at the other man, shocked that such a word would be used, but before he had the chance to demand an apology, Sherlock reeled off a long list of deductions in such an unusual rush that Lestrade only caught one word in ten. Fingers twitching rapidly and eyes actively avoiding John, Sherlock all but ran away throwing the words 'It was the sister in law' over his shoulder.

John stared as Sherlock hailed a cab and was out of sight in record shattering time.

“What did he do?” asked John, still not quite caught up to the events of the last minute.

“Sherlock? He did nothing, the manager Thomas Erwin here chose some unfortunate terminology.” Lestrade glared at the balding man who defiantly stared back.

“So Scotland yard require the help of imbeciles to solve their crimes?” Erwin sneered.

“Mr. Erwin, Do not insult my associates.” Lestrade's tone was cold enough to freeze hell twice over.

Erwin just raised his hairy eyebrows “So this is what our tax dollars pay for? My store was robbed and you are letting a fucking Deficient onto the scene of the crime? It's a damn shame Hitler didn't get enough time to round all of them up before they-” Perhaps he had intended to finish his sentence, but it was difficult to speak with a mouthful of blood.

“Jesus, John! Go find Sherlock.” Lestrade ordered, looking around and sighing in relief when the only other witness was Sally Donovan who was gawking in absolute disgust at the shameless little man writhing on the floor.

“I BILL REBORT THITH!” he cried,blood dripping through his fingers.

“Good luck,” sneered Donovan. “But I saw you step on a rake, and that is what the report will say..”

John heard nothing of this exchange and after wiping the blood off his fist onto his jeans, he went to go look for his friend.

 

* * *

 

He was going to go to school! Just like Mycroft! Finally after 6 long years he could go!

Sherlock's first day of primary school had started out with sky-high expectations, he was going to make friends, learn things, and become like Mycroft.

It had not worked out that way.

For years the only way Sherlock could forget his first day of school was by chemical injections, whether they be cocaine or heroin, and even then the jeering chorus of “Deficient, deficient, dee dee dee deficient.” haunted his dreams.

He had been home schooled after that.

 

* * *

 

It was late and 221Bwas empty when John arrived, or at least it seemed to be at first. Sherlock's bedroom door was open and the room was dark, but when John peered in he could just make out the shape of the detective sitting on the floor and leaning against his bed.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John asked softly.

After receiving no reply, John entered and approached the figure looking straight through wall underneath the closed window, the street lights streaming through and highlighting the detective's facial structure. “Sherlock?”

The man didn't even blink in recognition.

John cleared his throat “Sherlock, you do know that -uh- well that no one actually thinks of you like that. He had no right to call you that, and… I'm sorry,” he finished awkwardly.

Sherlock's sharp eyes suddenly focused and looked at him for a long moment before returning to the dead-eyed stare at the wall. John stood, unsure as to his next move, before raising his chin and with a nod he took a step forward and sat underneath the window, right beside the spot Sherlock's gaze was focused on. The detective didn't react, and they stayed there until John fell asleep.

He woke up the next morning alone under Sherlock's duvet, never having heard the whispered 'thank you.'

 

* * *

 

 “Excuse me, but which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?”

Both John and Sherlock looked up to see the young brunette who had asked the ever-popular question.

“Hello. Please do tell us why you require my services. But please do be quick about it, I do have a decaying femur that will need my attention rather soon.” Sherlock said as he slipped into his usual place and steepled his fingers, noting that the client was clearly too upset over her own problem to even care that his visible wrist was blank.

“Uh...Okay, well I did go to the police with this concern but they told me that since nothing has actually happened the most they could suggest was to not go anywhere without someone to accompany me, but that is really difficult and my schedule...”

“What is the problem.?” Sherlock interrupted despite John's clear disapproval.

“Uh, well last week I received a present in the mail, it was an ear iphone case.”

“A real ear?” asked Sherlock, looking very interested.

“No! Thank god, no. It’s one of those rubber oversized ear iPhone cases, it’s kind of a joke because when you hold it up to your ear to speak on the phone it looks like you have huge ears.”

“Alright. What’s the problem,” asked John.

“Well someone went to a lot of trouble to modify it to make it look as real as possible, well as real as a big rubber ear can look like. They even added hair to it.” She said as she dug into her purse and pulled out a ziplock bag that held a hairy rubber ear. Sherlock reached out eagerly.

“Finally John! Something worth my time.”

  

* * *

 

“I still don't see how we went from biological hazard to murder” John laughed as they fumbled their way into their flat.

“The strange cases are always the best ones.” Smiled Sherlock hanging up his coat.

“But really? A rubber ear? Seriously, I thought Harry and I had problems. At least we are not identical twins, because then even DNA tests would get me blamed for all the crap she pulled.”

“You got blamed for things she did regardless.”

“Well yeah, but only small things, like when she broke the school window with a baseball.” John paused before continuing in fake irritation. “That got me two weeks of detention, and she only got a short lecture on proper behaviour.”

Sherlock grinned at John who was already putting the kettle on. John kept giggling as he made the tea, and Sherlock sat on the kitchen stool watching him with bright eyes and a suppressed smile.

 

 


	3. Once upon a murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That is not my problem. It's the Minister of Public Transportation’s problem.” Mycroft stated looking like an incredibly pleased cat.

“Good Evening John.”

“Jesus!” John turned sharply to face none other than the British Government in all his suit-clad glory.

“Not quite” Mycroft Holmes replied calmly

“I did think it was odd that the tube station was empty.”

“Hmm, yes. Took quite a bit of bother to manage it, but the minister of public transportation owed me a favour and I was feeling creative.”

“You need a hobby.” Sighed John looking around the empty carriage. “Is the entire Underground evacuated?” he queried.

“No, only just this line.”

“Just this line?! Mycroft! Its rush hour, there are people trying to get home!”

“Like I said, the minister owed me a favour, and I was feeling creative.”

“What did the minister do to you? Kill your puppy?”

“I am not at liberty to say, however this 'tube failure' will cost them dearly next election.” Mycroft smirked. “Anyway, John I did not descend to this claustrophobic's nightmare, just to exchange polite greetings, I need you to get Sherlock to look at this case.” He pulled a thin folder from his jacket. “Get him to look at it.”

“You closed off an entire tube line just to get me to tell Sherlock to look at a file about...” John flipped through the file “A man killed in his living room? It's too pedestrian for him.”

Mycroft tapped is ever present umbrella “I could solve it myself but-”

“But you're too busy shutting down entire tube lines to do it yourself.” John interrupted.

“Sherlock rarely uses the Underground, so it is an ideal meeting place.”

“No it is not. Tens of thousands use this line in rush hour, and you have delayed them all from getting home on time!”

“That is not my problem. It's the Minister of Public Transportation’s problem.” Mycroft stated looking like an incredibly pleased cat.

“Whatever. I don't care. Piss off, Mycroft.” John stood up just as the carriage slowed and announced his station.

Mycroft watched him leave, with vague interest.

 

* * *

 

“-ORED!!” was the cry that John heard upon opening the front door. “SO BORED!” “WHY IS EVERYTHING SO D-” Sherlocks cries of anguish were cut off with a sharp boom.

“Oh. Hello John,” Sherlock said sweetly looking innocently away from the mess.

“What the hell?”

“Just a minor miscalculation....” Sherlock wiped the light blue powder off his nose, and bent over to pick up the broken shards of glass.

“I am not even going to ask. Just clean it up” John waved to the entire kitchen and putting down the file turned to find his own room.

Sherlock glared at the broken test tube, then raised his head to glare at the empty space John had left. It was then that the 'Mycroft' looking folder caught his eye, and upon reading the contents he groaned and flung it across the room “I thought I told Mycroft I would only do the interesting ones!”

“You said you were bored.” John answered from up stairs

“Yes, but I'm not desperate!” Sherlock called back.

“Yes you are.”

Sherlock glared again at the absent John. Ignoring the mess in the kitchen he picked up the folder and started reading the case file. Mary had been waiting for her husband to come home, when he did arrive they discussed dinner plans and he said he was too tired to go out, so Mary had gone to the store and bought some lettuce for a salad while the meat cooked. Only to return and find her husband laying on the living room floor dead. Blunt force trauma to the head apparently, no weapon found, and Mary was inconsolable. How unbearably dull.

“Ah, see I knew you were bored enough.” smiled John as he entered the sitting room.

“I'll bet Mycroft solved this one the instant he lay eyes on it.” Sherlock sneered

“That obvious is it?” John sighed

“The husband is having an affair, tells his wife he is leaving her, she hits him with a hard object, he dies, she goes out to build an alibi, and after all the fuss the police fall for her obvious deception.”

“That easy was it?

“Yes. Although I don't know what she used to kill the man.” Sherlock paused for a moment before demanding John pass him his phone.

The line rang twice.

“Hello Detective inspector Molson here.”

“What did Mary Cushing do while you investigated her house?” He demanded.

“Wait… Who is this?” The confused voice asked.

“It's me, Just answer the question.” Sherlock supplied

“Who's me? What do you want?!”

“Doesn't matter. Did Mary do anything out of the ordinary?”

“Her husband had just been murdered, I'd say that was pretty out of the ordinary. Who is this?” said the slightly alarmed voice on the other end of the line.

“I do not have time for this. What did she do upon your arrival?”

“Uh. Nothing! She cried, worried about us working so late, Took out a leg of lamb that was cooking in the oven and insisted we eat it because otherwise it would go to rot! She was greatly distressed.”

“What did the lamb taste like?” Sherlock asked

“I don't know! --It was bland, we all had to add salt and pepper to it.” Was the confused response.

“You idiots! You ate the murder weapon!”

“What? You can't kill someone with-”

“The grocery store clerk is quoted in the file as saying the suspect was worried about cooking the lamb frozen! She took the rock hard frozen leg of lamb, hit his head, he died, she put it in the oven, she was too distracted to realize she hadn't seasoned it. No cook forgets to add salt and spices to expensive meat. Then you gluttons ate it!” Sherlock hung up and dramatically fell to his knees and burying his face into John’s lap asked “Why are people such idiots?”

John laughed quietly and pulled Sherlock's head back. “Because if they were as smart as you, you wouldn't have a job.”

Sherlock stopped to consider this and muttered “You might have a point,” before getting up and going to go clean up the mess in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

John had left at some point and Mycroft had appeared in his place. Apparently he thought he was an adequate substitute. Sherlock looked his brother up and down. Mycroft made a piss poor substitute.

“I trust you solved my little puzzle, brother dear.”

“Mhmm. Hardly a puzzle Mycroft. Why on earth did you send me such a trivial matter?”

“I was trying to ascertain exactly how bored you were. Clearly the criminals of London have gone into hibernation, and seeing as you were so bored you called up DI Molson, its clear to me that you will take any case just to avoid the ennui.” Mycroft smiled.

“I am not solving any cases you give me Mycroft.”

“And I am not asking you to. However there is a small matter of burglary that I'm sure you'd be interested in.”

“Why not get one of you minions to do it?”

“Because it is a simple matter and I would rather you were breaking and entering for the sake of retrieving documents, then know that you're here alone all day while John works, returning to your old habits.”

“I. Am. Clean. Mycroft.”

“For now, yes I know. In order to avoid any future problems, may I suggest you refresh your knowledge of safes because Mr. Belsey is a traditional man who doesn't believe in electronics, and he is currently in possession of a transcript that I would dearly love to have in my hands.”

“Give me one good reason as to why I should be interested in Mr Belsey's safe.”

“Because brother dear, with those papers I can have Victor Trevor arrested and convicted of murder.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I did make a reference to Roald Dahls 'Lamb to the slaughter' We were reading it in one of my courses and I kept thinking that that sort of half assed police work is exactly what drives Sherlock up the wall, so I wrote it in. If you haven't read it go look it up, its a short story and written by the man who wrote Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Mathilda, and James and the giant peach.


	4. Hurry John! We are Going House Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hops around in time, get your Tardis ready.

“I am so sorry, he's just a puppy and I haven't managed to train him very well yet.” Sherlock sat on the pavement nursing his injured foot and glaried at the dog who was now under the control of its owner.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the young brown-haired man who was holding his growling dog tightly. This was his third year of university, and this was the first time someone other than a professor had initiated a conversation with him.

“I sneezed and accidentally let go of the leash, I am so sorry, do you need help getting to the clinic? It would be best if a nurse took a look at it.”

Sherlock stood and gingerly tried putting weight on his bloody ankle. He winced. Yes, perhaps a visit to the nurse was a good idea.

“Here, let me.” With that the young man wrapped and arm around him and together they managed to make it to the campus clinic.

“My name is Victor by the way, Victor Trevor.” the brown haired man said as he drove Sherlock to his apartment, the dog was carefully locked into his kennel. Sherlock's foot was sanitized and bandaged.

“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. It would have been nicer to meet under different circumstances.” he said ruefully.

“I am really sorry about that, next time I will make sure I don't let go of the leash.” Victor apologized as he helped Sherlock out of the car and handed him his crutch. “Call me if you need a ride, its the least I can do.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded.

 

* * *

 

“John! Hurry we are going house breaking.”

 “That is a sentence that should not be said with such joy.” John grumbled and he reached for the sneakers that Sherlock has procured, and had already smeared with dirt from the north of London.

 “Lestrade will want me in on this break in once we have committed it, so it best to leave as many false clues as possible.” Sherlock reminded John as he threw him some gloves and a small plastic bag of hair, already frayed to look as if it had been caught in the window and been pulled off. “Remember to pass me the hair, I need to get it caught in the window frame.” The detective called from underneath a pile of hats and black pants through which he was digging through madly.

 “Why do you explain the details, but not the plan? I don't even know which house we are breaking into!” John sighed resignedly he was going to get sent to prison for a crime that he didn't understand.

 

* * *

 

 “Sherlock!” Victor called.

Sherlock jostled the pile of papers he was holding and turned to his friend “Hmm?”

“There's a party this weekend, wanna go? A friend of mine has a new load coming in tomorrow, and he is giving me a free sample and you are interested in chemicals so I figured you'd be interested.”

“I-” Sherlock began but was interrupted by Victor saying “Come on, your ankle is fine now so we can celebrate.”

“I guess.”

Victor smiled brilliantly at him

 

* * *

 

“But why can't I go in with you?” John hissed into the darkness of the country road.

“Weren't you listening!? I already told you. I need you out here watching for a dark blue car, they are out but the old man has a nasty habit of arriving home randomly between 11pm and 6am.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I already disabled the burglar alarm I have an ear piece in, if you need to tell me something press the green button on the speaker and then talk..”

“Okay fine, how long will it take you?” John asked as he took in his surroundings They were on a small country estate a short distance from the outskirts of London. It was only 10pm but Sherlock had insisted that the early hour would make them less suspicious and less likely to meet up with the blue car.

“I should be able to open the safe within 20 minutes, in total it should take me 32 minutes to get back here. If I am caught or spotted you run for the rendezvous spot I pointed out to you earlier, no one will think of looking there. If I do not meet you there within the hour, change clothes, throw the clothes you are now wearing into the bag I gave you and throw it into the skip I showed you, and then return to Bakerstreet and wait for Mycroft to contact you. Simple.”

“I don't like it.” John muttered as he held out something to the detective.

 “Too late.” Sherlock grabbed the plastic bag of hair that John was holding and with a muted laugh disappeared into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

“Victor please!” Sherlock begged. “I really need some, I will get you the money when I can make a withdrawal from my trust fund next week!”

 “No, you freak. I need the money before I give you the stuff. Got it?” Victor turned on his heel and left.

 Sherlock stared in shock wondering if it was normal for friends to call each other names. He had heard people refer to their friends or partners as 'idiot' or 'moron' but he wasn't sure if this fell into that same category. He shook his head and left Victor's flat.

 

* * *

 

John stared around him on high alert. The house Sherlock was breaking into was a large white building with two floors and very expensive furniture. Apparently there was something in a safe that Sherlock wanted so here they were. A bush shivered in the breeze, and John stared at it in suspicion. Logically he supposed no human would hide in a bush late at night, but it still made him uneasy. Sherlock had been gone five minutes.

 

* * *

 

“Heeeeeeey, Swerlock mate wanna come visit for chirsssssmas?” Victor slurred as he leaned on the sober Sherlock. This was only the second party Victor had brought Sherlock to in two years of knowing each other. Parties were noisy and no one ever had good quality cocaine, so Sherlock didn't care for them at all, however Victor had been insistent that he come. “Juuust for Chrissmas Eve till the 26th... We will have snow and eeeeverythhing.” Victor hiccoughed and made a face as some bile came up.

 

“I will think about it.” Sherlock said. He had known Victor for 26 months now, and although he hated being dragged to parties it was a sacrifice he made in the name of friendship.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had little trouble entering the house, as expected he had easily picked the lock and entered through the side door. The house was a spacious six-bedroom house with a state of the art kitchen. The perfectly manicured lawn was matched by the immaculate interior decor of the building, the only signs that this house was inhabited were the pictures of grandchildren that hung on the walls, and one lone bright purple teddy bear that lay on one of the leather sofas. The detective slid silently through the halls and with very little trouble found the safe which was tucked away behind a painting on the hallway wall. The only inhabitants of the house were asleep, and this safe was a particularly easy one to open. Really, people should invest in quality security boxes.

 

* * *

 

“Ah so you are the famous Mr. Holmes I hear so much about,” Mr. Trevor said as his son and Sherlock entered the room. Sherlock gave a slight smile as Victor introduced his father and showed him to his room. The Trevor estate was very pleasant, a large garden surrounded by an old forest made up the immediate landscape, with farmland further away. It had not snowed but Sherlock didn't care. Perhaps this Christmas would be more enjoyable than the usual tradition of pretended pleasantries that Mycroft so enjoyed.

 

* * *

 

30 minutes had passed and John was getting a bit anxious. The bush had not made anymore suspicious movements but it was hard to see and everything was really too quiet. Two minutes later the silence was broken by some shouting and a sudden flood of light as the entire lawn was lit up. John spun around searching for a shadow to hide in, and quickly ducked behind a tree, staring at the bright lawn trying to make out the shape of his friend but to no avail. John was about to start for the rendezvous point when he was suddenly grabbed from behind by man who cried “Ah ha! I have got you now!”

John gave a sharp twist and in a split second had slipped out of the man's grasp and had headed for the relative safety of the shadows that lined the country road. Another man grabbed his hand not a minute later, but this time the voice said “Run.” and John laughed as they both lost themselves in the darkness of the night.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay perverts the next chapter is a t/m rating so if you are too victorian for that then you may skip till chapter 6


	5. Your pillow talk is rubbish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John." Sherlock managed to gasp a few minutes later.  
> "Hmmm?"  
> "John we can't-"  
> "And why not?"  
> "Because it won't work"

Sherlock entered the flat first. Adrenaline still flooding his system from the running, he threw his coat on to the rack before suddenly finding himself pressed up against the closed door with John's lips on his own.

This was new. Very new. John's lips were warm and wet, pressing into Sherlock's own still mouth. A gentle sucking sensation alerted Sherlock and reminded him to reciprocate, he thought back onto couples he had seen in parks or on the street whom he had most definitively not envied at all. Kissing was a give and take motion which would probably work best in this situation if he imitated John's movements. Sherlock tentatively parted his lips and caught John's just as he was letting go, and a small noise escaped John's throat and vibrated into Sherlock's mouth.

John's hands were holding Sherlock's face and caressing his dark hair, while Sherlock's had embedded themselves into John's jumper seemingly trying to melt into the soft fabric. Sherlock gasped when John's tongue pressed against his lips and John took ,advantage of Sherlock's open mouth to trace the detective's teeth. At Sherlock's groan and sudden flailing of his hands, John let go of Sherlock's hair and took Sherlock's hands in his own, intertwining the fingers and pressing their hands onto the wall on either side of Sherlock's head. Sherlock moaned again and John continued to invade Sherlock's mouth.

"John," Sherlock managed to gasp a few minutes later.

"Hmmm?"

"John we can't-"

"And why not?"

"Because it won't work."

"And what - makes you - think - that?" John asked in between kisses

Sherlock groaned with pleasure before muttering "b'cause my wrist-"

John pulled away confused, looking at their intertwined digits. "What about your,-Oh." Sherlock blushed furiously and pushed John lightly away and muttered "I'm sorry," before fleeing to his room, but before he could close his bedroom door John was holding it open.

"Sherlock, I-"

"What?" Sherlock looked at John raising his hands "No, I don't have a name John, and it’s fine, I will delete it."

"What the hell does not having a soulscribble have to do with deleting?" John asked in confusion.

“You are and have been looking for the person who can read the name on your wrist. I can't decipher it so I am not your soulmate John, and you are looking for yours, so any sort of involvement would be made excessively difficult if not impossible because you will constantly look at other people’s wrists trying to decipher their name and hoping you will meet the person who can read yours.”

John looked at Sherlock's wrist, which was wholly clear of any sort of scribble. "Oh. But-"

Sherlock looked away, sighed and sunk into a hunched sitting position at the foot of his mattress John took a slow step forward and sat beside him.

"I can't read your wrist John. I can't. I have tried but I can't." Sherlock sounded defeated and John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Heglanced at it briefly and swallowed hard. Of all nature's cruel jokes, this was the worst; he could read everything about everybody with no more than a glance, but he couldn't read the scribble of the only person who mattered.

"I do feel, John, “Sherlock murmured. “The propaganda was wrong, the people without soulscribbles aren't always psychopaths."

"I know that. Someone who was incapable of emotions would never jump around saying 'It’s Christmas' about anything," John said smiling slightly as he leaned into Sherlock.

"My whole life people have been avoiding me, staring at my wrist and turning away." Sherlock rubbed his face with his hands. "My first memory is my aunt asking my mother what was wrong with me." Hefocused on John’s face. "Everyone notices. Most are too polite to say anything but some do." With  a bitter laugh he added "I can't even hide it since no one wears clothes that cover wrists, and even the best tattoo artists can't replicate one. Anything you can imagine has been said to me at some point, and there is nothing I can do about it."

John stared at Sherlock; the detective was as close to crying as John was ever likely to see. Sherlock's pale lean frame shook with deep breaths and his eyes had drifted away from John’s face and were now focused on the carpet.

"I am so sorry that--"

"That I what?" Sherlock interrupted bitterly. "That I am like this? That it’s impossible for me to talk to people without them backing away?! I was born like this John, I can't help it and I. Do. Not. Want. Your. Pity." Sherlock moved to storm out but John held him in place.

The room fell silent for a few seconds while John reflected on Sherlock's aggravated words.

"Nobody has ever-" John began before Sherlock cut him off again, seemingly for the hundredth time that night.

"No John. Most people barely shake hands with me, no one has ever wanted to do more than perhaps a quick nod in acknowledgement."

"Was that the first time someone's-"

"It's fine. I understand if you regret it. I will delete it, you don't have to-"

And for the second time that night Sherlock found himself being kissed by John.

Sherlock was clearly too shocked to respond - which was a first - but John kissed his slightly parted lips anyway.

"John you don't understand!" Sherlock managed a few seconds later after pushing John away.

"I understand perfectly well thank you. You seem to be convinced that I need proof that you are my 'soulmate’.” John said pulling back far enough so he could focus on Sherlock's eyes. "Soulscribbles make life a lot easier, but the fact you can't read my name doesn't affect how positive I am about it. Has it even crossed your brilliant mind that the reason you can't read my wrist is tied up with your lack of name? You can't read it because you don't have one I will bet that if you did have one it would say my name.''

"But-"

"But what Sherlock?! Do you think that I need a name to know that you’re not insane or a danger to society like the stereotypes forced on you? Because I knew those things the by the end of our first case and this isn't gratitude. This is me saying that you are amazing and I love you."

Sherlock went still, his eyes locked on John's before he performed a rather complicated move that had John laying flat on his back on the bed with Sherlock leaning over him.

"You actually think this will work?" Sherlock's voice wavered as he spoke and there was a tremor in his hands that the detective was unable to hide. The insecurity in the usually unflappable man had John almost heartbroken. The sheer amount of abuse that Sherlock had undoubtedly gone through to make him so unsure of himself would have likely crippled anyone else.

"Positive" replied John as the razor sharp icy eyes probed his every thought.

After a moment’s hesitation Sherlock leaned down and kissed him.

A short time later found their positions reversed and John's fingers threading Sherlock's hair. John had once again taken the lead after Sherlock had exhausted his very limited knowledge of kissing, and now Sherlock was practically a puddle underneath him, quivering and desperate so when John shifted his position and put a slight pressure on Sherlock's legs he wasn't surprised at how quickly Sherlock spread this thighs open and allowed John to put his knee right up against his crotch. Sherlock had groaned loudly and ground down onto John’s knee,  gasping at the contact.

John had paused and had taken a long look at the writhing form beneath him. Oh God. Sherlock's hair was mussed and his pupils blown wide. He was mostly on his bed but both legs were spread and hanging off the bottom of the mattress - John was hovering right above him as turned on as he had ever been and silently wondering how he had gotten such a gorgeous man to look so debauched.

"Sherlock, have you really never done this before?" John asked in a surprisingly steady voice.

After an absurdly long moment Sherlock's mind snapped to attention and slowly reasserted some of its faculties. "I already told you I haven't. People can hardly stand to be near me John. Do you really think I have been able to be intimate with anybody? I doubt there is even a prostitute alive who would accept me as a client."

"I-I think we may be going a bit too fast if this is your first time," John said even though everything south of his waist was begging to say hell to it and fuck Sherlock right through the mattress.

Sherlock snorted disdainfully "I don't care whether or not it is ‘too fast’ or not, John I am very fast learner. John, I want your cock in me before I have to flip you over and do it myself."

“Aren't you eager.”

“Shut up.”

John laughed.

A few sweaty minutes later they were both dressed only in their pants and John was kissing Sherlock's neck as he felt his way up his flatmate's thigh. Very sparse and fine blonde and ginger hairs spotted Sherlock's legs and his torso was almost as bare. John had been kissing the taller man when Sherlock had managed to mutter "left hand drawer in closet" John had gotten up to look for the drawer and had returned with a small bottle.

"Condom?"

"I am clean," Sherlock mumbled

"Yeah so am I, but still Sherlock it's-"

"It's not important. And I would rather not."

''That is not the point!''

''I do not care. Not necessary.''

"Are you-"

"Of course I'm sure John! The lube is under the bed. Now hurry up and fuck me before I-"

John had already begun to pull down Sherlock's dark blue pants allowing his fingers to graze Sherlock's erection. A muffled cry escaped Sherlock's mouth and he flung an arm over his eyes trying to prevent his hips from bucking.

"Shhh, breathe, otherwise it will be over too soon," John soothed as he threw the pants onto the ground and quickly removed his own.

John bent to kiss Sherlock's tense body and he felt Sherlock tense up even more when his own erection pressed into thigh.

"Fuck John!"

John gave a low hum and sat back focusing on coating his fingers with the contents of the bottle and gently spreading Sherlock's arse cheeks apart to reveal the puckered muscle.

Slowly slipping a finger in and watching Sherlock desperately try to breathe was almost too much but closing his eyes and taking a few calming breaths allowed him to continue. Sherlock made a muffled noise and then said something in what was definitely not English or French, but rather sounded like German. A short while later John had managed to coax in two fingers and Sherlock had almost immediately wrapped his legs around John’s torso and pressed himself down hard on John's hand. Precum was leaking down his shaft, rubbing between them, and John had had enough. Sherlock was not going to last much longer, and neither was he to be honest.

John sat up and after applying a generous amount of the bottle's contents to himself he realigned and directed one last questioning look at Sherlock who answered with a nod. John pushed into the tightness, and Sherlock cried out.

"Are you nnngh- alright?"

"Fuck. Me. John." The breathless order was all the response he got.

And John did.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock?” John asked the man who still lay limp, his eyes closed and his breathing soft. “Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?” came a deep rumble.

“Are you alright?” asked John, part of him terrified of what Sherlock's answer could be.

“Its quiet.” Sherlock answered, his nose buried in John’s hair.

John wanted to ask what on earth Sherlock meant, but he did as he was asked and lay his head back down on cooling skin.

 

Sherlock eventually lifted John’s head before rearranging their bodies and throwing the soiled cloth to the floor. “I am sorry about tonight.” Sherlock mumbled. John smiled.

“You said it was a simple burglary, how on earth did you manage to get caught?”

The detective gave an annoyed growl.

“I might have miscalculated the number of people staying at the house.”

“What do you mean?”

“The grandson was staying over in the room that was right beside the safe. He must have realized he had forgotten his teddy bear in the living room because a door opened and the child walked right into me. I don't know if my ears will ever recover from that shriek.” John laughed and hugged the detective closer to him. “I was almost caught you know.”

“Hmm yes, the boy's father was also staying the night and he is an excellent runner as I found out. He must have lost sight of me on the lawn and probably saw you moving and figured he could hold you down for the police.” Sherlock grinned into John's pillow. “He was an idiot.”

John threaded his fingers through the dark and sweat-damp curls “Will they be able to trace us to the crime?”

“No, I left several false clues and they never got a good look at us. It would take me to trace us to the crime scene, but I have no intention of doing so.”

“Ah, is prison too dull for you?”

“Your pillow talk is rubbish, shut up and go to sleep. Lestrade will want me to tell him all about the fat Scandinavian man with a severe case of dandruff and a missing forefinger who broke into a country home and stole some insignificant papers tomorrow, and I have to be well rested enough as to not give myself away.” Sherlock sniffed, and John laughed into his pillow.

 

* * *

 

Victor stared at him in pure disgust.

“They were right,” Victor gave a spiteful laugh. “You are a fucking queer. Leave.” With that he got up from the bed and swept out of the room, completely ignoring the shattered soul he left behind.

“Sherlock wake up.” John shook the trembling form that lay beside him “Sherlock?”

The detective blinked awake and with a half choked sob turned away from John.

“Sherlock, please talk to me.”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Not if you don’t talk to me.Who's Victor?”

Sherlock froze.

“You kept saying his name in your sleep,” John explained, his voice full of concern.

”Did he do something to you?”  “No. He did nothing.” Sherlock lied as he tried to relax his body and still his racing heart. John gave a hum and leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder. The silence dragged on for several minutes before he took a shaky breath “Victor Trevor was the only person I met in University - well, other than Sebastian and his friends who begged me for my answers for exams. I had gotten in on a scholarship at 16 and in third year his dog attacked me, and he helped to to the clinic… Afterwards I helped him with his homework and he gave me a discount on cocaine.”

“What happened?” John asked, mentally taking note of Victor Trevor’s name.

“He invited me over for Christmas, I ki-... I misunderstood how he felt about me, and he told me to leave.” Sherlock's careful monotone betrayed his true feelings.

“You kissed him?” John asked softly. Sherlock gave a curt nod. “And he told you to leave.” John muttered.

“Only after he called me a disgusting queer.” Sherlock supplied. “It was Christmas eve, and nearly impossible to find transport back to London. I walked to the nearest highway and hitchhiked. I ended up spending the night in a warehouse.”

“Oh my god.” John groaned and cupped Sherlock's face, pressing light kisses into his hair. “He is scum, I hope Mycroft had him waterboarded or whatever it is Mycroft does to people he doesn't like.”

Sherlock smiled. “No, but those papers I stole from the safe are enough to have Victor imprisoned for life. He has been getting involved with various smugglers and Mycroft recently found the location of the documents that would implicate him in a court, hence the burglary last night.”

“Took your brother long enough.” 

“There was no rush, Victor was never happy being a part time drug dealer he felt he was capable of greater things. Things like child prostitution.” Sherlock said sarcastically.

John snorted and buried his face in Sherlock's neck “May he rot.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first chapter I wrote, and I incorporated 4 separate fics to make this story something more then a pwp. I hope you liked it :)  
> And now the Epilogue.


	6. Oh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all works out eventually.

“What. The. Hell!?”

“John...”

“No, Sherlock. What the bloody hell?”

“Head wounds always appear worse than they are.” Sherlock said defensively. John had been reading the paper early one morning when the idiot he had for a Partner...boyfriend?..lover? opened the door to 221B dripping blood from an open wound on the back of his head. John's immediate reaction would have been one of concern had the detective been exhibiting signs of brain injury. However Sherlock had sauntered into the room with a clear and focused glare that seemed to dare John to comment on how he should have brought him along for back up. No concussion then John decided, because even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to walk with such deliberate movements if his brain had been injured.

“What happened?”John asked caught between concern and annoyance at Sherlock's idiotic habit of not having back up when he should. “I told you last time this happened that whenever you think there is anything dangerous that could possibly happen you should wake me up. Just reach over and shake me I will go with you even if it is 4am.”

“There was no danger-” Sherlock began, and John who had gotten up to retrieve his medical kit huffed out a disbelieving laugh and stared pointedly at the bloody hand print Sherlock had left on the door. “There was no danger John. I woke up and remembered I needed dust samples from that empty bakery we were at yesterday. So I went and I was putting the sample into my coat when I hit my head on an over hanging shelf which caused an empty jar to fall and cut my scalp. I had no concussion symptoms, only bleeding. Sherlock recounted as he settled onto the floor in front of John's chair and letting John wrap a towel around his neck to catch the blood. The doctor was too occupied with the half clotted cut to reply. 

“It looks like it had partially clotted but the scab was torn off.” John said a few minutes later.

“The bleeding had almost stopped when I went to look for the tube since cabs are so easy to scare away with bodily fluids.” Sherlock grimaced in annoyance. “On the tube someone shoved past me and I stepped backwards into a pole and that reopened the wound.”

John had finished parting the hair and was holding a piece of gauze with one hand and trying to open up the bottle of disinfectant cream with the other. “The bleeding had almost stopped, but your hair is going to be difficult to wash out. John put the cream down and threaded his fingers through the soft strands, and gently taking out bit of dried blood and dropping the flakes onto the towel. “Hmm, I think you have a mole right here.” John focused his gaze on a spot a few centimeters above Sherlock's ear and under a thick bunch of curls. “It's a pretty big one and- oh.” John let the gauze drop as he used both hands to part the black hair.

“John?”

“I-uh-Sherlock...”

“What?” Sherlock demanded. “What John?” Receiving no response he stood up and headed for the bathroom where he adjusted the mirrors so he could see the spot John had been staring at. John followed him to the sink and watched as Sherlock lifted up a section of his long hair.

“Oh” Sherlock said stunned.

Under the thick dark hair which he had been born with and had never worn short, a faint grey scribble had lain hidden for 32 years, one that John had deciphered the moment he saw it.

"John Hamish Watson" John read aloud.

Sherlock made a noise he would never admit to.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww my babies! 
> 
> Sherlock's soulscribble wasn't on his wrist but on his head under his hair. No one had ever seen it because it was faint and his hair always obscured it. Sherlock will not be able to read his name on John's wrist simply as a side effect of his scribble not being on his wrist, but rest assured that if he could read John's wrist it would say his name.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	7. Lestrade and his desire for mind bleach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock eavesdrops on a conversation, and Lestrade sees what he wishes he hadn't seen.

_I have decided to add another chapter to this story, mainly because wonderful people like ZellaCat have been asking for a continuation. Although this might not be the sweet romantic conclusion some people might want, it's something I wanted to write. Not Beta'd and not Brit picked. Fml_

 

They had been tracking the last of the child traffickers for days, Sherlock's head wound had barely had enough time to heal when Mycroft had called. The Victor Trevor files that Sherlock had stolen revealed a whole organization that permeated England and Wales; those who had been based in and around London had been caught and were awaiting a trial. Those who had set up shop in Cardiff had slowly been picked up, some were found tied up in basements while others had been discovered locked inside wheelie bins. Sherlock had wanted to dangle them from the light posts on Cardiff bridge, but John had thought it would be more poetic to quite literally throw them out with the garbage.

 

The final raid on this child prostitution ring had been planned to occur on a Saturday afternoon but when Sherlock entered the supposed headquarters it quickly became obvious that the rats had abandoned ship. The police were called off and the building was swept for evidence. As they were leaving frustrated and empty handed after several hours of searching for a clue as to where the last remnants of this criminal ring were hiding, it was John who spotted a scrap of paper with an address scribbled onto it. And it was John who had been last seen being shoved into an unmarked car.

 

* * *

 

“It's been 7 hours!” Sherlock said running his fingers through his already dishevelled curls. “I am not going to sit and wait for you to get your apes organized.”

 

Lestrade crumpled the paper coffee cup he was holding. “Jesus Sherlock! We are doing all we can! There are three children being held hostage once we can make sure that they will live to their teen years we will allow a full raid of the premises, to go looking for John could compromise the negotiations.”

 

“Ridley has no choice but to surrender, the children will live to have very difficult teen years, and the British justice system will be clogged up for months with the trials relating to this case.”

 

“We can't be sure of that!” Lestrade exclaimed.

 

“John was taken from Cardiff 7 hours ago, he has been held here for almost half that time, Mycroft traced the car once it had been detected near London, it didn't stop anywhere and no one was seen getting in or out until it was parked here. The children were lead here and John was taken to the other end of the facility, I want him back and I can retrieve him without putting the children in danger.”

 

“You can't be certain of that! For God's sake Sherlock you can't jeopardize the lives of three children!”

 

“Ridley is just delaying the inevitable he can't kill the children and he can't hold out much longer, if I go looking for John it will just wrap this whole mess up sooner.” Sherlock insisted.

 

“Sherlock. This is my case, and there are procedures to follow, we will find John as soon as we have Ridley.”

 

“Lestrade!” Called a police officer from the small table where they had set up the phone on which negations were occurring, Ridley on one end yelling threats, and the police on the other trying to dissuade him.

 

“Bloody hell.” Lestrade cursed turning away from Sherlock, “Don't do anything stupid Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock's insincere smile did nothing to reassure the detective inspector.

 

* * *

 

The moment Lestrade's back was turned Sherlock flung off his Belstaff coat and darted into the shadows that were cast by the abandoned building, even the harsh police lighting could not brighten an entire warehouse. He had been under surveillance since he set foot on the premises, but now he had finally been forgotten. Ridley, the middle aged ex-school teacher turned smuggler had been delaying proceedings for hours, Sherlock could tell by the tone of his voice and by the smallest quivers in his voice that he would eventually give himself up, he was just giving his boss time to destroy any evidence and to escape.

 

With care Sherlock easily disabled the cheap alarm system that had been installed on one door and he entered the building without making a sound. The bright lights outside lit up the interior and Sherlock manages to weave around obstacles without alerting anyone of his presence. The police would be too uncoordinated to do any such thing, so perhaps it is an advantage to have them tied up in procedures; finally reaching the far door and after checking for another alarm system Sherlock gently opened it revealing a set of stairs that lead to the basement.

 

Like the ground floor, the basement was designed as a storage area with a few smaller rooms that functioned as offices, the only noises were coming from behind the closed office doors.

 

“Hurry, we have five minutes before Ridley gives himself up.” One voice said

 

“We should have told him to hold them off for 2 hours instead of just one, there is no way we have enough time to get away.” A second voice said.

 

“Shut the fuck up Burns.” Ordered a familiar voice “Grant, get the car ready we will be out in two minutes.”

 

Sherlock slipped his hand into the waistband of his black trousers and pulled out the bludgeon he had nicked from a police officer earlier that evening. The Belstaff had hidden the rather obvious bulge from Lestrade but it was easier to move stealthily without the heavy wool coat. He had nicked it over an hour and Officer Redding was yet to notice; how half of these people had made it into the police force still baffled him.

 

The man who had been called Grant stepped out of the small office carrying a large box full of what appeared to be hard drives, and it was with difficulty that he made his way towards a black car that sat waiting in the shadows. Grant deposited the large box in the trunk of the car and quickly ran to a metal panel on the wall and pressed a button. An awful sound of metal on metal flooded the basement but faded out as recently oiled gears warmed up, slowly the metal panel rose revealing a ramp that had once been used by lorries to deliver goods directly to the basement storage space, but that was about to be used as an escape route by the three men. Grant had turned on the car as the fresh night air blew into the building and was about to return to the offices when he crumpled to the floor.

 

Sherlock twirled the bludgeon in satisfaction and ran swiftly back to the offices.

 

“Is that everything?” Burns asked

 

“Yes, take this back to the car, and wait with Grant, I'll take care of Watson.”

 

“Will you shoot him?”

 

“I don't know, he lives with Holmes and that is truly worse then death so I might let him live so he can go back to live with his precious deficient. Or I might just shoot him in the head.” Victor Trevor's voice echoed through the building as he let his lackey head towards the car before turning off the lights and heading for a door a few meters further down.

 

Sherlock waited for Victor to enter the other room before he quickly brought his weapon down hard on the back of Burns' head. He fell to the floor, the bag he carried still held in his grasp.

 

In a second Sherlock had whipped around and was silently opening the door into which Victor had disappeared. It was a small room with bad lighting, John and Victor were in the middle it, neither noticed Sherlock as he crept in.

 

“-you do don't you? He can never return that sentiment. You should have seen the way he used to follow me around like I was his mother or something, He was so scrawny back then, it's hilarious that he thought I would be interested in him! He threw himself at me one Christmas you know, it was rather pathetic.” Victor smirked, cocking the gun he held.

 

John was seated tied to a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back looking as if he would happily tie Victor down and cut out his lungs using nothing more then a plastic spoon. “Thank fuck Sherlock got away from you.” John said in a carefully controlled voice.

 

“He's nothing more then a scrawny deficient.”

 

John laughed “How can you be so blind? Sherlock is in no way a deficient.”

 

Victor quirked a brow “His wrist is blank, no name, no soul. He is nothing more then an animated corpse with illusions of individuality.”

 

Sherlock rose from the darkness of the doorway and posed, ready to throw the bludgeon. “No Victor, you're wrong.” Sherlock stated and with one smooth movement flung the bludgeon in a way so that it hit Victor's wrist, causing the gun he was holding to fly across the room. Victor fell to his knees in pain holding his shattered wrist trying to diminish the pain.

 

Sherlock strode confidantly over to the prone man, his purple shirt fitting tightly against a muscular torso that although slim, could never be considered scrawny. One large hand jerked Victor's chin up while the other picked up the police bludgeon from the floor. “I could shoot you, but you're not worth the 20 seconds it would take me to make it look like it was a suicide.” With that Sherlock brought the heavy stick down onto Victor's head with a sickening crunch. Sherlock gave Victor a mild look of disgust and slipped the bludgeon back into the waistband of his trousers and turned to look at John.

 

John raised an eyebrow “Is that a weapon or are you just pleased to see me.”

 

Sherlock stared at him his face blank but his eyes flitting through a dozen emotions until he seemed to settle on affection towards the short blond army doctor who had said something Sherlock had never thought he would hear. In two long strides he was leaning over John and looking directly into his face, one hand balanced on John's thigh, the other on John's shoulder. “What did Victor ask you?”

 

“What do you mean?” John asked.

 

“Before he told you about that Christmas, what did he ask you?”

 

John flushed and squirmed uncomfortably against the rope that bound his midsection to the chair.

 

“John?”

 

“He asked if I loved you.” John said his eye flitting from Sherlock's cutting gaze to the floor.

 

“And Wh-” Sherlock's voice cracked and he quickly cleared his throat, “And what did you say.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes?” Sherlock asked his vision swimming.

 

“Yes. I love you, you git.” John said smiling affectionately as the detective almost swayed.

 

“Ah. Good, that's good.”

 

“Is it?” John asked tilting his head up, wanting nothing more then to embrace the detective, but being unable to do so because of the restraints.

 

Sherlock took a step back, turned around and in an almost clumsy movement returned to his previous pose. “Yes. It's Very good.”

 

John smiled and looked at Sherlock's mouth, the detective got the hint and almost melted against John as their tongues met. Sherlock moaned and straddled John's lap and unconsciously grinding down. John exhaled sharply and Sherlock broke the kiss to catch his breath.

 

“Don't you care that I can't read your wrist?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I thought we had gone over this Sherlock,” John said “I do not have to know that you can read my wrist to know that I am spending the rest of my life with you.”

 

Sherlock blinked hard, and biting his lower lip he nodded “I love you too John.”

 

John smiled and leaned as far as he could so he could kiss the detective, who promptly returned it.

 

Sherlock's hands stroked the sides of John's face before migrating towards his shoulders and torso, a steady stream of moans and gasps escaped both of them and echoed in the small grey room. Eventually Sherlock managed to slip a hand under John's jumper and rubbed the soft and yet strong sides of his blogger's abdomen.

 

“Sherlock?” John gasped breaking the kiss. “Sherlock whatareyoudoing?”

 

The detective continued to run his fingers up and down John's body stroking warm flesh under layers of clothing.

 

“John.” Sherlock purred as he ground down “Even you can deduce what I am doing.” He lifted his head from the spot he had been sucking on John's neck and began to kneel keeping his face only centimetres off Johns chest as he went down.

 

“Sher-Fuck.” The doctor choked as long fingers slipped under his shirt.

 

Sherlock looked up at John with a sly grin “John. Language.” He admonished as he almost reverently undid the belt.

 

“The police will be here any minute!” John pushed against the ropes still wrapped around his waist.

 

“Not for another 7 minutes and I do not think it will take that long.” Sherlock murmured sliding off John's lap and kneeling as his hand slipped into John's pants. Sending John a look so seductive that it could make metal melt Sherlock ran his fingers up John's glans without removing the grey fabric of John's underwear.

 

“You couldn't untie me first?” John asked inhaling sharply as his arms fought against the ropes.

 

“Don't be so pedestrian.” Sherlock said focusing as he continued his ministrations while John tried to keep quiet. “How long have you wanted this?” Sherlock asked in a deep sultry tone that left John shaking “You are so aroused I could have you come in your pants like an adolescent.”

 

John threw his head back hitting it against the wooden chair that he was still tied to “Sherlock please.”

 

Sherlock smiled and placing his hands onto John's hips he gently blew onto the wetness that was drenching the fabric. Above him, John moaned.

 

“Sher-” John couldn't even finish the name because Sherlock had begun to mouth him through the fabric. “Sherl-” John began again and tightened his fingers in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock moaned and the deep vibrations sent John over the edge as he came in his pants for the first time since he was 14.

 

He barely registered Sherlock's “That is going to be uncomfortable.” comment, and he was just conscious enough to watch his detective withdraw a handkerchief from a pocket and pull John's underwear down long enough to gently wipe away most of the mess before readjusting him and buckling his belt. Sherlock slowly drew himself back onto his feet, pocketed the used handkerchief and leaned towards John's ear to whisper “The police will soon be here.”

 

* * *

 

Lestrade looked down the abandoned basement hallways, his eyes resting on one door that seemed to have had a new lock. Silently beaconing the accompanying officers he made his way over to it. Of course it was closed but it wasn't long before the lock was picked. The room was empty but for one body in the middle of the room and nearby Sherlock was busily cutting away at thick ropes that held John tied at the chest.

 

“About time.”

 

Lestrade scoffed “Oi! We got here as fast as we could!”

 

“I told John 8 minutes ago that you would be here in 7 minutes. Your incompetency could have cost us our lives!”

 

“It's fine Greg, your timing was ideal.” John said shaking his newly liberated arms. “Are the kids alright?”

 

“Yea, they are in custody and Ridley is on his way to Scotland Yard.” Lestrade gave them a quizzical look. Something was different he didn't know what, but something was. Perhaps it was the way that Sherlock held a hand flat against John's chest and he cut the last binding rope as to prevent John from falling, or maybe it was the way that John leaned into the hand in a way that didn't appear to be for physical support. He looked away when Sherlock offered John his arm because it seemed unbearably intimate.

 

Was that...No Sherlock would never be so indiscreet...

Lestrade's eyes widened and John coughed and nudged Sherlock.

 

“Ah.” Sherlock said as he caught on to what was causing the embarrassment that Lestrade was projecting. Stepping towards Lestrade he pulled out the police bludgeon from his trousers. “Please do return this to Officer Redding.” Lestrade took it and Sherlock twirled away leading John out of the room.

 

“Alright both of you need to give statements so don't run off.” Lestrade called after them, but he could see that neither John or Sherlock had any intention of obeying his instructions, especially because unless Sherlock had hidden two police bludgeons in his trousers Lestrade got the feeling that those two would be looking for the fastest possible way home.

 

God he needed to bleach his mind.

 

“Uh Lestrade... Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have left the premises.” Officer Conner said over the radio.

 

Wonderful he would be hunting them down for a statement for days. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go read Vignettes from a journey by cicero_scobie. It's brilliant and has fewer hits then it deserves.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1896852


End file.
